


Baby, It's Cold Outside

by Flowerparrish



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, M/M, the best hot chocolate in New York City, the most minor hurt/comfort ever written, winter adventures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 17:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17208020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish
Summary: Clint hatches a plan and embarks on Operation Help Bucky Barnes Learn to Enjoy Winter (OHBBLEW for short).





	Baby, It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sororising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sororising/gifts).



Clint Barton has a complicated relationship with winter. Not even getting into _Christmas_ specifically, just the weather brings with it memories, good and bad.

 

Cold was bad, for years, because he never had warm enough clothes, had to make do with Barney’s worn hand-me-down coat and socks that were so thin they barely made a difference, had to pretend their house where they had no central heat and too few blankets and could only burn wood in the fireplace when his father was home (and it’s not like he ever wanted to risk being in the same room as that man if he could help it) was good enough, had to pretend later that their trailer at the circus was enough when it _wasn’t._ He has to put aside memories of living rough for a few years, sleeping outside and waking up blanketed by snow more than once, memories of tracking people at fancy New Year’s parties through the scope of a rifle or the sight on his bow from a rooftop in below freezing weather, no gloves on because it could mess with his aim.

 

But he also has memories of Natasha in winter, her cheeks red with the cold and her curls tucked under a beanie, smiling softly at the snow wherever they found themselves that year. He has memories of Phil handing him a thermos of hot chocolate before he sent him out to a perch in the cold, of Phil’s voice in his ear keeping him warm.

 

He leans toward liking winter these days, maybe more out of spite for his early years than anything— _fuck you all, you can’t take this joy away from me_ —but also because the last decade or so of his life has giving him more than a handful of reasons to like it.

 

Bucky Barnes _hates_ the winter. At first everyone thinks it’s because of his time as the Winter Soldier, and Clint still thinks that has to be part of it, but Steve tells them all that Bucky’s always hated winter. It sounds, from what Steve says and what he carefully doesn’t say, like he hates it for many of the same reasons Clint used to—the root of them being cold and too poor to afford warmth.

 

Bucky avoids leaving the tower from the middle of November until late March; he’ll go out if they’re called to assemble, and he’ll go out if Steve wheedles enough, but otherwise, he holes up in his rooms or on the couch on the communal floor, under a hoodie even though the tower is perfectly warm, and he _glowers_ out the windows like the weather is a personal attack against him.

 

It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so goddam sad.

 

So Clint hatches a plan and embarks on Operation Help Bucky Barnes Learn to Enjoy Winter (OHBBLEW for short).

 

-

 

When he shows up at Bucky’s door on the first day of OHBBLEW, he has a brown paper bag full of supplies with him. He’s also wearing a hideous winter themed sweater that is a bit too warm and very itchy, because Clint Barton loves few things more than disastrously ugly winter sweaters. They complement his aesthetic as a trainwreck nicely.

 

It’s the weekend after Thanksgiving, and he knows for a fact that Steve is going around raising money for various charities at over the top wealthy people balls and banquets this weekend, so it’s a pretty good bet that Bucky is in his rooms.

 

Sure enough, although it takes five minutes of Clint almost-patiently waiting (he does give in to the impulse to bounce on the balls of his feet after the first couple of minutes go by), Bucky opens the door. There’s crease-lines on his face and his shirt looks like it was hastily pulled on; Clint’s momentarily blown away by just how… normal he looks. Clint knows Bucky Barnes is just a person like the rest of them—a supersoldier, sure, as well as a traumatized mess—but sometimes it’s hard to separate the ideal of the Winter Soldier from the reality of Bucky the man.

 

“What’s up?” Bucky asks, more alert than he should be if Clint dragged him away from a mid-afternoon nap. Clint would still be slurring his syllables if he was in Bucky’s place.

 

Clint waves around the bag. “We’re making gingerbread houses,” he announces. He does his best to make his tone friendly and yet firm, because it’s a dumb idea, probably, but it’s his dumb idea and he’s standing by it.

 

Bucky blinks at him for a minute before scrutinizing the bag. “Why?” he asks after a moment.

 

Clint shrugs. “Natahsa’s not big on baking and it’s no fun doing it alone.”

 

Bucky looks skeptical, and he opens his mouth to no doubt ask another question, but after a moment he closes it again. He studies Clint and then steps back to wave him inside. “I hope you brought a baking tray,” is all he says, “because I sure as shit don’t have one.”

 

Clint doesn’t pump a fist in the air in success, which he thinks is indicative of great maturity and restraint on his part. Too bad Nat isn’t here to see it.

 

As he’s unpacking the bag of supplies onto the island in Bucky’s kitchen, he hears a soft noise from the other man. When he looks over, Bucky is frowning down at his phone.

 

“What?” Clint asks.

 

“You have to refrigerate the dough for a day?”

 

Clint shrugs. “I mean, it can’t be that important, right?”

 

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “I guess,” he says dubiously, but he joins Clint in staring at the mess of supplies that have taken over all the available space in his kitchen—which, given that it’s a kitchen made by Tony Stark, is a _lot_ of open space.

 

The first step is making the dough. Clint has a recipe that he googled, although he doesn’t necessarily intend to follow it step by step—for example, skipping the step where he refrigerates it _forever and a half_ doesn’t seem like a big deal to him.

 

The way Bucky looks at him every time he tries to deviate, it’s clearly _a big deal._

 

But they get through it and the dough looks good, although Bucky refuses to let him taste it. “You’ll get salmonella,” he admonishes, and Clint stares at him.

 

“How do you even know that?”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Just because I’m from the past doesn’t mean I’m incapable of googling things.”

 

Which, yeah, fair.

 

Clint goes to roll out the dough and Bucky stops him. “You have to sprinkle flour over the counter so it doesn’t stick,” he says.

 

“How do you even know that?”

 

Bucky glowers like he’s daring Clint to make fun of him when he says, “The Food Network is very informative.”

 

Clint’s pretty sure he’s never willingly watched The Food Network in his life, so he defers to Bucky’s expertise. In fact… “Yeah, okay,” he agrees with a shrug, and then passes over the bowl of dough. “Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

 

They get the dough rolled out and cut enough pieces to make one house each. It takes them three baking trays—luckily, Bucky did have one after all—which means they use both ovens, but it’s an extravagant kitchen with multiple ovens, so that’s okay too.

 

“What now?” Bucky asks as the last tray goes in the oven.

 

Clint shrugs. He hadn’t really planned for their downtime; it’s a tactical oversight. “Christmas music?” he suggests.

 

Bucky glowers again. “No.”

 

“Scrooge,” Clint accuses.

 

“It’s not even December yet.”

 

Clint waves that away. “Fine, fine, put on whatever music you like and we’ll clean up. We’ll need to use these bowls again.”

 

Clint starts moving the dishes to the sink and almost freezes when he hears Bucky put on what is undeniably modern pop music. Like, yeah, Steve listens to Taylor Swift, but that’s one thing. Bucky listening to Kesha? That’s something completely else.

 

“What now?” Bucky asks, sounding slightly annoyed.

 

“Nothing, just… expected your taste in music to be a little more dated,” Clint admits.

 

Bucky shrugs. “It’s all music” is all he says, and Clint lets it go.

 

The minutes pass in companionable quiet; Bucky switches Clint over to drying duty when Clint doesn’t clean the utensils thoroughly enough for his liking, and they finish  clearing up just as the cookies are ready to come out.

 

That’s when they see that the cookies are… a little darker, and blacker around the edges, than they look in the pictures. “What the fuck?” Clint asks, feeling betrayed.

 

Bucky frowns. “We can cut off the edges?” he suggests.

 

Clint shakes his head. “It would throw off the measurements. We’ll just frost them extra hard and maybe no one will notice.”

 

“Who’s going to see them, anyway?” Bucky asks.

 

Clint considers. “Well, we can put them in the team dining room.”

 

Bucky doesn’t look enthused, but he nods anyway.

 

Clint then makes the mistake of trying to pick up one of the cookies. Bucky’s hand snaps out, grabbing his wrist, and Clint blinks, because he’d barely even seen the other man move. Bucky’s hand retracts almost as quickly and he winces. “Sorry. Just, you have to let them cool or they’ll fall apart.”

 

“Oh,” Clint says. “Right.” He leans against the counter and studies the metal arm. “Can you feel stuff with that arm? How do you know how tightly to grab something?”

 

“Did I hurt you?”

 

“No,” Clint says. He studies his wrist anyway, but it’s fine—no marks, no pain. “That’s kind of my point. How do you know?”

 

Bucky shrugs. “I can feel pressure but…” he trails off, smouldering into the distance like an action hero. It should look ridiculous—he’s in a t-shirt with flour down the front and sweatpants, his hair is pulled back into a messy bun—but it just looks ridiculously attractive instead.

 

Not that Clint thinks he’s attractive, of course. Just… aesthetically pleasant.

 

“I just know,” Bucky says with a shrug, and it takes Clint a moment to remember what they were talking about.

 

“Cool,” he says after a minute. Not knowing what else to do, he reaches out to take a cookie. Bucky doesn’t attack him this time, so he figures they must be cool enough to handle.

 

While the cookies finish cooling on a rack, they mix the icing that will hold the houses together. Here, again, they disagree. “You have to separate the egg whites from the yolk,” Bucky insists.

 

“How the fuck do you do that?” Clint asks, aggrieved. He’s beginning to wonder why he thought any of this would be simple. Natasha would accuse him of barreling into a mission with inadequate preparation. She’d be right, and that makes him pissy.

 

Bucky pulls open his fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. He quickly drains the water and then places the empty bottle over the egg yolk and squeezes. Clint watches, amazed, as the yolk is sucked in, leaving only the clear part behind.

 

“What kind of fucking magic is that?”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “It’s science, dumbass.”

 

Clint shrugs. “Might as well be magic to me.”

 

Bucky’s glance says he’s not buying Clint’s dumb act, which makes Clint feel a little warmer inside. “Want to try?” is all he says, though, and Clint nods.

 

Once the icing is made, they stare at the icing bag and the pieces of the house.

 

A minute passes.

 

“Battle plan?” Bucky asks.

 

Clint gives up and shrugs. “No idea.”

 

“Big help, that,” Bucky says, but he sounds almost fond. It’s the same tone he gets when Steve says something stupid. “You hold the pieces and I’ll ice them and then you can stick them together.”

 

“It’s a plan.”

 

They get the house put together. But then Clint lets it go, and it holds together for a moment before just… falling apart. The feeling of betrayal returns with a vengeance.

 

“We could just glue them?” Clint suggests.

 

“Then they wouldn’t be edible,” Bucky points out. He’s got a similar stubborn look in his eye that Steve gets. “Let’s just try again.”

 

They try three times. It falls apart each time.

 

Bucky finally sighs. “Okay, glue,” he agrees. He goes off to find it, and Clint stares down at the mess of icing and cookie slices sadly. This was supposed to be fun, but it seems to have turned into more of a hassle than anything. Fuck.

 

They glue the slices together with hot glue that Bucky dug up from somewhere, and the pieces finally stay upright. “We can ice over it and no one will notice,” Clint decides.

 

“What if someone eats it?”

 

“We’ll put up a sign saying not to eat them, and then if someone eats it, that’s their own fault,” Clint decides.

 

Bucky grins, a slow smile that takes over his face and lights up his eyes and, oh. Oh.

 

Fuck.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, while Clint’s world slightly realigns. “Bet Steve is the first person to eat a piece.”

 

“Nah,” Clint disagrees. “It’ll be Tony for sure.”

 

“What do you want to bet?”

 

And Clint’s traitorous mind says, _a kiss,_ before he can bury the thought. But out loud, he says, “what, the joy of tricking out teammates into eating glue like kindergarteners isn’t enough for you?”

 

Bucky _laughs._ Clint’s life is officially ruined. “I suppose it’ll have to be,” he allows.

 

They compete to see who can decorate their house the best. Bucky wins, of course, because his frosting is in neat rows and his candies are color sorted into a rainbow. Clint just sort of makes a squiggly pattern on his and scatters candy randomly, figuring it’ll be good enough. This also means he’s done long before Bucky, so he spends the remaining time regaling him with the story of the one time Natasha’s ever tried to bake, when she started with packaged chocolate chip cookies and ended up with piles of ash because she forgot to set a timer. After that, she swore off the practice.

 

Bucky looks horrified and amused in equal parts. “So she isn’t good at _everything,_ then,” he comments.

 

Clint laughs. “Nat’s far from perfect. She just keeps me around to make her look good by comparison.”

 

Bucky shoots him a loaded glance that Clint can’t quite read. “You’re not that bad,” he says after a minute.

 

“I’m a disaster,” Clint tells him cheerfully.

 

“Can’t argue with that,” Bucky agrees, but he’s got that soft smile Clint’s never seen directed at anyone but Steve, so that’s more than okay.

 

-

 

It takes exactly four hours and thirteen minutes for Tony to breeze through the dining room, ignore the “Do Not Eat” signs, and snap off a piece to munch on his way to the kitchen for coffee.

 

Clint _does_ do a fist pump this time.

 

-

 

He gives it a couple of days before he approaches Bucky again. It’s a couple of days into December when he knocks on Bucky’s door again, this time with a bright purple coat over his arm and a scarf around his neck.

 

Bucky looks more awake this time, although he’s still in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Does he even own a coat? He’s shorter than Clint, but broader, so he’d probably have to steal something of Steve’s if he didn’t…

 

“What’s up?” Bucky asks.

 

“Let’s go get hot chocolate.” He’s taking a risk dragging Bucky out into winter weather, even starting small.

 

“Like at the coffeeshop in the atrium of the building?” Bucky asks, eyes raking over Clint’s attire. He clearly knows the answer.

 

Clint scoffs. “That’s hardly the best hot chocolate in New York City.”

 

“Oh?” Bucky asks. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “And where would that be, then?”

 

“Brooklyn,” Clint says with satisfaction, because he knows the way to get to Steve and Bucky both is through their home borough.

 

Sure enough, Bucky straightens up, eyebrows lifting. “It’s cold out,” he says, but Clint can see that it’s a token protest.

 

“Wear a coat.”

 

Bucky studies him for a moment longer before giving a brief nod. “I’ll be right back.”

 

Clint only has to wait a few minutes before Bucky returns, and it takes all of his self-control to not let out a whistle.

 

It’s impossible to deny that Bucky’s _hot._ He’s in an old fashion peacoat with a navy sweater underneath that brings out the color of his eyes, and his jeans are _tight._ In his hands is a light blue scarf and a black beanie. He’s a weird combination of man-out-of-time and millennial, and it shouldn’t work as well as it does.

 

He’s halfway to the elevator before Clint remembers how to function. He turns back and raises an eyebrow. “You coming?”

 

Clint’s had worse crushes in his life, but this one still doesn’t feel like his best idea. But, fuck it, he’s never been one for good ideas.

 

They take the subway, which might not have been Clint’s best idea either. Bucky’s eyes get tight when the doors close, and he holds his posture carefully in the way that means he’s prepared for violence if necessary.

 

Luckily, it’s late morning on a weekday, so the subway isn’t packed with people. They stand even though there are seats open, and no one crowds into their space.

 

Clint wants to bump Bucky’s shoulder with his own, a quiet reminder that he’s got backup, but he knows not everyone is tactile like he is, so he refrains. Instead, he chatters aimlessly about Dog Cops to Bucky, who hasn’t seen the show, which is a damn shame.

 

Forty minutes pass, and they behold the best chocolate shop in the city: Jacques Torres Chocolate and Ice Cream.

 

“I’ve never heard of it,” Bucky says after a minute of Clint gazing inside, giving it the moment of recognition that it deserves.

 

“Have you tried all of the chocolate in New York City?” Clint asks him combatively.

 

“Have you?”

 

“Probably.”

 

Bucky looks back at the shop and shrugs. “Well, okay then.”

 

Ten minutes later, they’re back outside, sipping warm hot chocolate. It is, possibly, better than Clint remembers.

 

“Okay,” Bucky says after a minute. “You’re right.”

 

Clint grins. “Did that hurt to admit?” Bucky nudges at him enough that he almost spills his hot chocolate. “Hey!”

 

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky tells him. But he’s got a small smile on his face during the ride back to Manhattan, so Clint takes it as a total win.

 

-

 

Steve returns to the tower, so Clint gives them a few days to hang out before he decides to advance to the next phase of his mission.

 

He shows up at Bucky’s door just after eleven in the morning on a Monday, a time when he knows Steve will be just about to go and harass Tony into considering lunch. Sure enough, he runs into Steve on his way out.

 

“Hey Clint,” Steve greets.

 

“Hey Steve. Good luck.”

 

“With what?” Steve asks, like his schedule isn’t unwavering when he’s in the Tower.

 

Clint rolls his eyes. “See you around,” he says instead, patting Steve on the shoulder and moving past him.

 

Bucky’s still in his doorway, watching the exchange, and raises his eyebrows as Clint approaches down the hall. “Another outdoor adventure?”

 

“It went well last time,” Clint points out.

 

Bucky concedes with a nod. “What is it this time?”

 

“It’s a surprise.”

 

Bucky shakes his head. “Nope, no surprises.”

 

“It’ll be fun,” Clint whines. “C’mon, Bucky, trust me?”

 

Bucky’s eyes are narrow but Clint can literally see his defenses crumbling. “Fine.”

 

-

 

“No,” Bucky says again when they’re standing Rockefeller. “I will not go ice skating with you.”

 

“It’s fun,” Clint tries.

 

“I don’t know how.”

 

“It’s easy,” Clint tells him. “I can do it, and I’m clumsy as fuck. You’re all grace in motion. You’ll be fine.”

 

Bucky’s glower hasn’t diminished; he’s actually scaring the passerby.

 

“Just try it?” Clint pleads. “If you hate it, we’ll leave.”

 

Bucky’s shoulders go up and he sighs explosively. “Fine.”

 

He holds on to the wall at first, because he refuses to hold onto Clint; he says he doesn’t actually trust that Clint won’t fall and drag them both down.

 

Jokes on him, Clint’s actually much better on skates than he is on his own two feet.

 

But he gets the hang of it after a couple of slow circuits of the ring, and he’s actually smiling by the time they’ve been there for half an hour.

 

It’s far from empty, but they don’t really have to worry about running into people, so Clint’s free to do some jumps and simple spins. He isn’t even showing off, necessarily, just having fun, but if he gets a little more into it when he notices Bucky’s appreciative gaze, well. Who could blame him?

 

They don’t get home for another few hours, where they find Bruce cooking in the kitchen on the communal floor and Steve sitting at the kitchen island chatting with him.

 

“Where have you been?” Steve asks, sounding surprised when he sees them still in winter coats.

 

“Ice skating!” Clint tells him happily.

 

Steve’s eyes widen slightly. “You ice skated?” he asks Bucky incredulously.

 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Little kids can do it, it’s not that hard,” he says, like Clint didn’t have to spend ten minutes psyching him up to try it.

 

“I guess,” Steve says doubtfully, shooting Clint a considering glance. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

 

Bucky shrugs. “It was fine.” It’s practically a ringing endorsement. Oh yeah, Clint’s headed toward mission success, he just knows it.

 

-

 

A week later, it snows, which means it’s the perfect time to advance to the next stage of the mission.

 

Clint doesn’t even have time to go get Bucky this time; he’s just grabbing his coat when there’s a knock at his door. When he opens it, Bucky is standing there, dressed for the outdoors.

 

“I asked Jarvis to tell me the next time you decided to drag me outside,” he explains. “Figured I’d save us time.”

 

Clint grins happily. “Awesome. We’re going sledding.”

 

They go to Fort Greene Park, because it’s got four hills for sledding and also it’s in Brooklyn, so Bucky can’t complain too hard. He does grumble about the cold for the first few minutes, but Clint ignores him, blowing out warm breathe and pretending he’s a dragon.

 

It’s not as much fun now that they’ve fought some evil genius’ mechanical but still fire-breathing dragon. Damn.

 

Clint considered trying to borrow Steve’s shield for sledding, because that would make for a _great_ story, but he decided in the end that risking Steve’s ire wouldn’t be worth it when the chance of success was so low. Instead, he bought a wooden sled—he wasn’t sure how well a cheap plastic one would stand up to Bucky’s strength—and figured they could take turns.

 

“Have you ever been sledding?” he asks Bucky as they treck up one of the hills.

 

“When I was a kid,” Bucky tells him, “we’d use trashcan lids and take turns. Steve always fell off halfway down the hill, and my little sister Becca always went the farthest.”

 

Clint smiles softly. “I never went sledding until I was an adult, but my brother Barney and I used to always build a snowman. Our mom would save up buttons and a carrot for us.” Their dad had always gotten angry about it, but it was one of the few times she’d ignored him and let them do something fun.

 

He’d also never told anyone about those memories, not even Natasha. But then, Bucky never talked about his family with anyone but Steve.

 

They reached the top of the hill and Clint looked down, stomach swooping a little in anticipation. “You want to go first?”

 

“Nah,” Bucky said with a smirk. “I want to see if you fall off like Stevie.”

 

“I am _offended,”_ Clint protested.

 

He fell off halfway down the hill.

 

“That was a fluke,” he said when he shoved himself out of the snow and glanced back at Bucky. “It doesn’t count!”

 

He couldn’t hear Bucky from this distance, but he could see him laughing.

 

Bucky won at sledding—not that Clint was very good competition—but he didn’t mind losing off the range. The real goal was to make Bucky enjoy the snowy weather, and after the fifth time Clint faceplanted into the snow and made Bucky laugh, he was fairly sure he’d achieved his goal. After all, he’d seen Bucky laugh more since he started OHBBLEW than he’d seen since the man moved in over a year ago.

 

That didn’t stop Clint from taking back his own by nailing Bucky in the back of the head with a snowball when he turned to head home, dragging the sled behind him on its string.

 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he turned to face Clint once more, brushing at the back of his collar.

 

“Bet you I have better aim with snowballs,” Clint challenged. He didn’t wait for Bucky to rise to the bait; he took off running down the hill to find cover behind the trees, scooping up snow as he went.

 

The fight was dirty and lasted at least three hours, not that Clint was keeping track of time. They only ended when it was getting dark and they were both shivering uncontrollably.

 

“I win!” Clint crowed happily when Bucky yielded the battle.

 

“This time,” Bucky qualified, the fierceness of the challenge ruined by his chattering teeth.

 

“A win’s a win,” Clint told him smugly. He looked around them for a moment before tilting his head slightly to the side. “Where’s the sled?”

 

-

 

They lost the sled. It took them less than two minutes to agree to give up on finding it. “We’ll just trick Tony into buying us a better one,” Clint decided.

 

“Or Steve,” Bucky agreed, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “With his seventy years of back pay.”

 

“Fuck yeah,” Clint agreed.

 

It was rush hour, so Clint got Jarvis to summon a car to take them back to the Tower. He avoided doing it because it made him feel like a rich asshole, but cramming Bucky into a subway car during rush hour wasn’t a good plan and he didn’t have enough cash for a taxi.

 

He leaned against Bucky unconsciously as they waited, and then froze up when he realized. “Sorry,” he said, starting to pull away.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes and put an arm around Clint, leaning against him easily. “It’s fucking freezing,” he complained. “I’m not going to complain about leeching off your body heat.”

 

“Oh,” Clint said. “Okay then.” After a moment, he dropped his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and tried not to think about what the memory of this would do for his pathetic crush.

 

-

 

Clint had more plans—there’s snowmen to be built, there’s sugar cookies to make and decorate, hell, they can do _a Christmas tree—_ but Clint wakes up the next day feeling like he’s dying. His head is pounding and he can’t breathe through his nose, so he decides that his plans can go fuck themselves for one day.

 

He drags himself out to the couch in his living room and passes out asleep, vegging out under a comforter he dragged with him from the bed. His only concession to pretending to be awake is to put his hearing aids in, because he’d rather be able to hear than risk his phone not alerting him to something—although fat lot of good he’d be if they got called out while he was in this state.

 

He has Dog Cops playing quietly in the background, wincing every time a dog barks on screen at the responding pain that flares through his head, when some fucker starts pounding on his door. Okay, they’re probably knocking a normal amount, but it _feels_ excessive to his headache.

 

“Jarvis,” Clint croaks, and wow, he sounds as shitty as he feels. Good to know. “Tell them to come in.”

 

Clint hears footsteps and then Bucky appears, gazing at him over the back of his couch. “You haven’t responded to any of my texts,” he says, not quite a question.

 

“I’m sick,” Clint says dumbly. It’s all he’s got right now.

 

“I can see that,” Bucky tells him with a huff. “This is what I hate about winter.”

 

Clint’s brain feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, so he can’t really spare the mental power to analyze that statement. “You hate the cold,” he says, and Bucky shrugs.

 

“That too.”

 

He disappears and there’s a few quiet noises from the kitchen, but Clint can’t really be bothered. He goes back to half-dozing, not quite managing to fall asleep because he’s _literally_ choking on his own snot, fucking nasty, and time passes in that hazy way it does when you’re sick until Bucky reappears, this time in front of him. He’s got a bowl in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

 

“What?” Clint asks, partly because he’s confused and partly because Bucky’s blocking Dog Cops.

 

“Soup,” Bucky says shortly, shoving the bowl at him. Clint takes it. Bucky sets the water down on the coffee table in front of him and, aw, coffee, he hasn’t had any today. Maybe that’s why his head hurts like someone’s taking a chisel to his skull every time he even thinks too loudly or moves too fast. Or at all.

 

“Coffee?” Clint pleads. He sounds pitiful. He’d be embarrassed if it didn’t seem like a lot of effort.

 

Bucky snorts rudely. “Maybe if you finish the soup and the water, you can have tea.”

 

“Mean,” Clint complains. He looks down and contemplates the soup. It’s possible he loses some time, because by the time he looks back up, Bucky’s gone again.

 

Whatever. He eats some of the soup, because Bucky made it for him, and that’s weird is what it is. When he’s sick, Nat treats him like he’s got the plague and avoids him for days. Phil was always too busy to do more than send him home to fend for himself and call him a couple times a day—if that—to check that he was still breathing. He’s only been sick a few times since joining the Avengers, mostly 24 hour stomach bugs or minor food poisoning, and no one seemed to concerned about him, or even really noticed that he was missing for a day or so.

 

Bucky noticed that he was missing—although, to be fair, Clint has been annoying him into winter adventures every day for the last week—but he didn’t leave Clint when he figured out what was going on. He made him soup.

 

Clint kind of wants to cry about the soup. He doesn’t. But he does eat all of it, even though he’s kind of sick to his stomach from swallowing so much snot, and he drinks some of the water too.

 

By the time Bucky comes back, his head is pounding marginally less and he’s almost convinced himself to take his aids out.

 

“Bruce gave me some cold medicine,” Bucky calls out, quietly, as he enters like he belongs in Clint’s space. It’s shockingly welcome. “Also, Sam donated Gatorade.”

 

“No more,” Clint protests. “My stomach is going to explode. I’m going to projectile vomit and then it’s going to sit there because I can’t clean it up until I’m well again, and by that point it’s going to be gross and I’m going to hate everything.”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “For later, then,” he allows. He hands Clint two small capsules already removed from the packet. Clint dry swallows them, because he’s done worse things, and he really doesn’t think he can handle any more water for the next, like, million hours. Minimum.

 

Clint narrows his eyes at Bucky, who is moving to clear up his bowl and the half empty glass of water, replacing it with one of the Gatorade bottles—hey, purple, Clint’s favorite. “Thank you,” he says carefully.

 

Bucky shrugs. “Got a lot of experience,” he says. “Plus, it sucks being sick.”

 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. He’ll think more on that later, after he’s had a nap.

 

-

 

By the time he wakes again, it’s dark outside. There’s a light on in the kitchen and a small lamp on his desk is lit, but the rest of the room is in shadows. He casts around for Bucky but doesn’t see him anywhere.

 

His ears feel gross from earing his aids in while sleeping and while sick, so he sighs to himself and takes them out. He shuffles into his bedroom, still cocooned in his comforter, and drops them on the bedside table before dropping into bed to sleep some more.

 

-

 

He feels better the next morning. Like, he still can’t breathe through his nose, and he’s still tired even though he’s done nothing but sleep, but his head is almost clear and his ears are fine. He takes a shower to wash away the stale sweat of sickness and puts his aids in.

 

His plan for today was to [blank], but that’s probably not a good idea. Instead, he grabs his phone and sends Bucky a text.

 

 _Get your ass up here we’re watching Christmas movies,_ he texts, followed by a string of purple heart emojis just to be obnoxious.

 

 _I hate Christmas movies,_ Bucky texts back, which Clint knows is a goddamn lie, because he’s caught Bucky stealing glances at the television in the lounge when they introduced Steve to It’s a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street last year. No one can hate those movies.

 

 _You’ll like my Christmas movies,_ Clint replies, rather than call him on the lie.

 

_???_

_Come up and see,_ Clint texts back, and leaves it at that. He heads to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee—in deference to health, he downs a bottle of Gatorade first—and starts popping an excessive amount of popcorn on the stove.

 

He burns the popcorn, but whatever. Gives it flavor or something.

 

The coffee is (nearly) fucking perfect—although somehow not as good as when Bucky makes it, what the hell—and Clint’s on his second cup, biggest bowl full of popcorn next to him on the couch, by the time Bucky shows up.

 

“It lives,” he says, breezing in like Clint vaguely remembers him doing the day before.

 

“Thanks to you,” he says with his most charming smile.

 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “What are we watching?” he asks, dropping down beside Clint, rather than on the other side of the popcorn bowl. Clint can feel the hard line of Bucky’s body _just_ pressed up against his, and it’s… something. Something that he’ll think about later.

 

Clint, who has had the movie queued up for days, hits one button on the remote, and it begins.

 

“I don’t think Die Hard is a Christmas movie,” Bucky objects after a couple of minutes.

 

Clint manfully resists the urge to dump the entire bowl of popcorn on his head. “You shut your mouth,” he grouses. “It’s the best Christmas movie.”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes but obligingly settles in to watch.

 

They watch all three—yes, _three—_ movies, finish an obscene amount of coffee and popcorn, and Bucky insists on making them both grilled cheese sandwiches, and all in all it’s one of Clint’s better days.

 

“Still not a Christmas movie” are Bucky’s parting words, because he’s an asshole, and Clint should not be grinning about that.

 

But he is.

 

-

 

By the time he starts to feel okay enough to leave the tower, it’s almost Christmas. It seems like perfect timing to drag Bucky out into the city to get a tree and a bunch of ornaments so they can argue over how to decorate it, but then Clint gets called out on a mission and he misses Christmas entirely.

 

It’s cold and unpleasant and he doesn’t get home until the day before New Years Eve, where he promptly showers in scalding hot water and sleeps for eighteen hours to make up for all the sleep he missed on mission. By the time he wakes up, it’s the last day of the year and it’s already halfway over. Clint’s prepared to finish off the year watching the stupid excitement in Times Square on the television, when there’s a knock at his door.

 

He should be expecting Bucky—it’s only fair that he’s turning the tables now, after all—but he isn’t. He especially isn’t expecting to see Bucky wearing a black sweater with white-and-sequin snowflakes on it.

 

Before he can figure out what to say, Bucky’s looked him up and down and is frowning like he isn’t impressed with what he sees. “You can’t wear sweatpants to Stark’s New Year’s Eve party.”

 

“I’m not… going to Tony’s New Year’s Eve party?”

 

Bucky frowns. “Why not?”

 

Clint shrugs. “I just slept for like a day and I don’t want to deal with a bunch of rich people asking me stupid questions.”

 

Bucky nods slowly. “What if I murder-glare at everyone so they leave us in peace to make fun of them from a distance?”

 

Clint breaks into a smile. “So you do admit that it’s a murder-glare!”

 

Bucky huffs. “Whatever. Answer the question.”

 

Clint tilts his head. “I guess,” he says after a minute. It’s a Tony party, so the booze will be free and plentiful. “I don’t know how intimidating you’re going to be in that sweater, though.”

 

Bucky smirks. “I’m the Winter Soldier. I can be intimidating in anything.”

 

-

 

Bucky vetoes Clint’s first choice outfit, so he ends up watching as Bucky roots through his closet, growing increasingly incredulous. “Do you own anything other than ridiculous sweaters, hoodies, and sweatpants?”

 

“You’re wearing a ridiculous sweater,” Clint points out.

 

“That’s different,” Bucky says, although Clint doesn’t see how.

 

He eventually settles on what he calls Clint’s “least ridiculous sweater” and a pair of dark wash jeans that Natasha forced upon Clint for occasions like this that he’s pretty sure he’s never worn.

 

By the time they get to the party, it’s in full swing. But, as promised, he and Bucky take up residence near the bar, far enough away to be out of hearing range of a normal person. They don’t bother talking after the first twenty or so times Clint has to ask, “what was that?” because he can’t hear Bucky with the background noise of a thousand people in a ballroom around them. Bucky switches to ASL so easily that Clint’s eyes widen, and then they’re signing and smirking at the people watching them with interest.

 

They mock Tony throughout his speech—made better because Clint’s pretty sure that Pepper hired someone to write that speech for him, and Clint’s pretty sure he catches Tony holding back laughter at one point because he’s also fluent in ASL and is perfectly placed to see what they’re signing—and Steve pretending he’s not got a crush on Tony even as his eyes track Tony’s movements through the room.

 

When it’s almost time for the ball to drop in Times Square, the countdown is projected onto a screen at the front of the room.

 

“You know,” Bucky says, leaning in close to Clint’s ear so he can better make out the words. “I hear you’re supposed to spend the year with whoever you’re with when the new year starts.”

 

Clint’s pretty sure his heart skips a beat. “Steve’s over there?” he says, gesturing vaguely.

 

Bucky pulls back to meet Clint’s eyes, his eyebrows raised. “C’mon, Barton, you’re not that dumb.”

 

Clint grins widely. “I am though,” he tells Bucky. “But you like me anyway.”

 

“God help me,” Bucky agrees. Everyone around them is focused on the screen, counting down now that it’s only seconds away. “Can I kiss you?”

 

Clint’s pretty sure his smile is so blinding that people can see it from space. “Hell yeah,” he says.

 

The ball drops, and Bucky Barnes kisses him.

 

-

 

His alarm—set to vibrate to wake him up—goes off at ten the next day, which is too early considering the time he got to bed. He’s momentarily confused by the warmth around him before he opens his eyes and sees Bucky’s flesh arm across his chest, his metal arm tucked under his pillow. Bucky’s eyes are blinking open, and he smiles when they land on Clint. He lifts up his arm to sign _good morning,_ and Clint signs it back before reaching over to put in his ears.

 

“Why are we getting up?” Bucky asks, a bit grumbly, but he’s pushing himself up even as he speaks.

 

“We’re going to go watch people jump into freezing water for charity,” he says.

 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “As fun as that sounds, if I say I don’t hate winter anymore, can we stay in and sleep more?”

 

Clint narrows his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says flippantly.

 

Bucky shakes his head. “You’re the least subtle person I know, Barton, and I grew up with Steve.”

 

“I’m more subtle than Tony!” Clint protests.

 

Bucky considers him for a moment. “If I agree, _then_ can we go back to sleep.”

 

“Make me pancakes and you’ve got a deal.”

 

“We can go to the best diner in Brooklyn for pancakes,” Bucky counter offers.

 

Clint considers. On one hand, he doesn’t really want to leave the Tower now that he doesn’t have a mission to motivate him. On the other hand, he’s been so successful that Bucky is willing to leave unprompted, even if the stealth of his mission was a complete failure.

 

“Deal,” Clint agrees.

 

Bucky lets out an exhale that turns into a grin. “Great. Now get over here and cuddle with me.”

 

Clint smiles happily. “That I can do.”

 

He ends up under the covers with a supersoldier sprawled across his chest like a heat blanket, his hand carding through Bucky’s long hair. It’s the best start to a new year he’s ever had.

 

“We’re totally watching the Polar Bear Plunge next year,” he says.

 

“Okay,” Bucky mumbles, already half asleep.

 

“Hey,” Clint says, jostling him lightly. “Do you think Steve would do it if we told him it’s for charity?”

 

Bucky glances up at him. “I take it all back, Barton, you’re a genius.”

 

Clint laughs. “Nice to be appreciated.”

 

Bucky’s arm tightens across his chest. “Thanks,” he says.

 

“For what?”

 

“For doing a bunch of stupid shit to make me happy.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

He listens as Bucky’s breathing evens out into sleep and smiles. Oh yeah, best mission ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to [kangofu-cb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB) for helping me plan when I asked "what's fun winter stuff someone can do in New York City?" and also for allowing me to keep in Bucky taking care of sick Clint, which was heavily inspired by her fic [Like Real People Do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937667/chapters/37163564) (if you haven't read it, you're in for a treat! it's excellent) which has become my heartcanon. Additional thinks to [claraxbarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton) for general supportiveness and being wonderful.


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